


dance the knight away

by ThinkingCAPSLOCK



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Friendship, Gen, No Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-31 02:16:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8559454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThinkingCAPSLOCK/pseuds/ThinkingCAPSLOCK
Summary: Percival has no intention of enjoying himself at this ball, but if dancing will get him out of speaking to Vane for the remainder of the night, he will.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally meant as a "congrats" for my friends in the [gbf zine](http://gbfzine.tumblr.com) for their hard work and being finished today... i know the date got pushed back but i timed this fic to the 14th, so it's still going up today anyway. good work so far everyone and keep at it for your entries - i hope you enjoy!

Percival is not used to seeing the largest room in the castle full. 

It's not the biggest group of people he's ever seen - travelling through busy markets, facing down the armies of the Empire, and even below deck on the Grancypher, he's grown used to crowds. It isn't the people, their expensive cloaks lined with silver and bronze, their long dresses scraping the polished marble floors, that makes the dome roofed room feel full. It's the scents of wafting food from four long tables, the sun slanting through the expensive coloured glass on the western wall, the flowers and candles strung from every shelf and column and cranny, the music, just starting, from the small orchestra in the corner.

"So," he asks, teeth grinding as he turns to his side, "tell me again _why_ you're having a ball?" 

King Carl, dressed in his richest golden tunic, embroidered with his crest, chuckles. Percival had moved beside him, at the top of the grand staircase, not minutes before, when the call for dinner ended and the music began. The central area of the floor was cleared of tables, the long purple carpets rolled by servants, as lords and ladies led each other out to dance. 

Percival does not wish to join them.

"My boy, this peace is what all true warriors strive for," King Carl replies. He gestures with a hand, taking in everything from the servants to the windows to the air itself. "The chance to celebrate with peers, free of shackles, to open the doors of the castle and proclaim the dark times done. When there is need for celebration, a king must answer the call, and answer it grandly. It's the duty of a ruler to look after his people's needs, even ones he may not understand."

King Carl's eyes slide over, his eyebrow raised, feigning surprise his words need to be spoken. Percival scowls. He crosses his arms, fixes his eyes on a single flower on a column not too far away. Eleven petals, a warm red in the flickering candlelight. 

"I know that, your highness. I was not raised by wolves." King Carl gives another short, barking laugh, which sets Percival's teeth grinding again. "But I have never cared for balls, nor do I understand why you've forced _me_ to stay. I am not your knight any longer."

"No, Percival. But you are yet _a_ knight, and an heir, and a ruler, and it will do these people good to remember one of the hands who helped saved them is of foreign blood." Percival doesn't turn to look, but from the movement in the air, he can tell the king is shaking his head. A weight lands on his shoulder: King Carl's hand. "You are also young, Percival, and you have much to learn that your travels can't teach you. Nor am I a strong enough leader to guide you. But you are smart, and I think a ball is a good place to start. At the very least, spend the time with your friends."

At that, Percival turns, shrugging the hand off his shoulder in the movement. His eyes narrow to slits, his mouth opening, full of the question of who, exactly, King Carl considers in his confidence. 

That is, of course, when Vane enters the room.

"Wow, this place looks amazing!" Vane's shout is loud enough to draw the eyes of near every dancing couple on the floor below, as well as Percival's scowl and the king's resigned smile. His tunic is thankfully not his usual, burnt orange garb, but rather the navy and gold of the Dragonknights' formal attire. The outfit is armourless, close cut, and much more expensive than what a knight usually wears. His white cloak is laced with blue thread, waves and swirls, the pattern of the dragon. Lancelot follows, dressed identically save for the bright white sash across his chest affixed with a golden broach. A dragon's head, the symbol of the captain.

It's been many years since Percival last saw it. 

"Vane, please keep your voice down," Lancelot mutters. He gives a formal, low bow, meant for just the king - but Percival doesn't move aside. "King Carl, thank you for allowing us to attend. Rest assured my knights have the castle well-guarded, even if Vane and I can't join them."

"Lancey, you worry too much!" Vane replies. His bow is quick and significantly less formal, but just as low as Lancelot's. He snaps upright with a grin. "King Carl invited us to attend as guests. It'd be rude to decline!"

"Vane's got the right of it," King Carl says, giving Vane a slap on the shoulder that would have sent Lancelot flying. "Now that you two are here, see to Percival. I have guests to greet, ladies to dance with, and I can't spend all my time with any single visitor, you know. Perhaps you can teach Percival what makes a ball worth attending." 

With a small nod of his own to each of them, the king makes his way down the staircase, one hand on the railing, the other waving to his guests. Vane still wears a dopey grin across his face as his eyes take in every corner of the grand hall. Lancelot seems distracted, tugging at the high collar of his tunic, shifting on his feet. His eyes dart to the guards at the entrances and exits. 

He doesn't want to be there, either.

"Do you not like balls, Percy?" Vane's voice floats over as he glances up from the floor below. Percival sniffs, turning his head to look at the gathering crowd. The flute picks up, a high, pure note in the air. "I love dancing, so a ball is a big deal. Especially not having to work when it's on! Slower songs like this aren't as fun, but when it picks up-"

"I do not recall allowing this conversation," Percival snaps. "Kindly refrain from-"

"I don't think there's any reason for someone to dislike coming to these," Vane continues, deaf to any interruption. Percival growls, hand reading where his sword should be to grab at air. Formalities can be stuffed - he wants Vane to leave him alone. He considers lighting a fire, but the attention and trouble it would cause would likely be greater than Vane's annoyances. "Oh! Can you not dance? Some of the knights said they couldn't and asked to be put on duty. If that's the case, I don't think it's hard to learn! Is that why King Carl left us with you?"

Inch by inch, Percival slides his gaze, head, body, to face Vane. One long, slow inch at a time. 

"Vane didn't mean it like that," Lancelot says. He steps in front of Vane, who seems surprised that something is happening. Lancelot's eyes are focused for the first time that night. Percival meets them. Neither flinches, or backs down. "Calm down, Percival."

"Not dance?" Percival feels the heat rise around his hand. He clenches fists, crushing the flames like small embers, before they lace his arms. Under control. Lancelot's eyes relax. "You think the reason I choose not to engage with buffoons and their antics is because I cannot dance? I've been trained by dancers you could not hope to even track with your feeble eyes. I have learned since I was but a mere child. I could dance before you had even considered pulling yourself off the ground."

"Care for a dance, then?" 

All three heads turn to the voice behind Percival, even as they recognize it. Siegfried. His cloak is the same ragged mess he usually wears, but his tunic underneath is rich brown and cream, and clearly new. His hair may have even been brushed - at the very least, a ribbon ties it back from his face. His smile is half between pleased and cautious. 

Percival tries to summon a retort, but Siegfried's sudden appearance and strange question stall it to a simple "What?" 

"A dance." Siegfried eases himself to the bannister, leaning against it as his eyes close. He takes a deep breath. "I've not been to a ball in years - which should come as no surprise - and I was hoping to find a good partner. I do remember how you used to dance, Percival. I'd like to see how you've improved first hand." 

"I... what?" Percival tilts his head to the side. He tries to keep his hands from tightening into fists, a colossal effort in his confusion. Was Siegfried, of all people, asking him to dance? At a ball he had no intention of staying at? He opens his mouth, even as he sorts his response, but Vane (and it is always Vane) jumps into the chat unbidden.

"Sieg, _I_ was gonna ask Percy to dance with me!" Vane's whine is loud enough to again draw the eyes of the dancers below, though King Carl doesn't so much as glance back at them. Percival deigns Vane a quick glance, taking in his pout and crossed arms. He even drills the toe of his polished boot into the floor. Percival's stomach churns with disgust. "You stole my line! I want to see how well he dances!" 

"Well, you should have asked more quickly, then," Siegfried says, as if the situation isn't the most absurd thing that has happened in the history of the country. He straightens himself off the bannister to give a slight bow to Percival. "Of course, Percival could always accept your offer over mine. I could take Lancelot out for his first dance of the evening instead."

Lancelot blinks, freezing mid-fidget with the sash across his shoulder, a few inches closer to the door than he had been a few minutes before. "Pardon? Me? Dancing?"

"You can't have Lancey's first dance too!!" Vane huffs, sucking the remaining air out of the room as he, again, ignores all interruption. Percival feels the nerves twitch in his neck, the heat gathering in his hands. He shakes them out and pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to keep himself from growling the words.

He fails, but really, the effect is worth it.

"I do not want to dance with _either_ of you. I do not wish to dance at all. Just because I am incredibly talented does not mean I want to engage with every solicitor at this bizarre event. Nor do I dance with dogs." He shoots a hard glare at Vane, withering enough to make esteemed Captain Lancelot flinch back. The blonde man is unaffected. He might even be smiling. 

"King Carl thinks you should enjoy yourself, Percy, and you can't do that standing around making angry faces! If you don't pick one of us, I'll... I'll... drag you down the steps! And don't think I couldn't, Percy!"

As if to emphasize his point, Vane flexes his muscles through his tunic, until Lancelot stops him with a hand on the shoulder. Percival looks between Vane's weirdly happy, yet forceful face, and Siegfried's calm, knowing smile. He has no intention of enjoying himself at this ball, but if dancing will get him out of speaking to Vane for the remainder of the night, he will.

Percival adjusts his tunic, straightens his cloak. In a quick movement he whirls, snatching Siegfried by the wrist. He near takes the steps two at a time on the way down, but restrains himself after Siegfried stumbles on the first marble step in the rush. The further down they walk, the thicker the air: full of perfumes and the patterns of tapping feet, the music growing louder. It makes him set his jaw harder, harder, each step downwards.

Footsteps ring behind him, but he doesn't spare a glance, not even when Lancelot and Vane share a private laugh. He doesn't look to King Carl, or the other courtiers. He only stops once he hits the dance floor, where he drops Siegfried's wrist with a harsh movement as he turns to face the man. Siegfried takes a moment to rub at it. 

The music fades: for a moment, silence sits heavily in the air. Percival ignores Vane and Lancelot getting into position beside him, the stilling of the dancers across the floor. Siegfried has one eyebrow raised, offering his hand out. Percival scowls.

"One dance," he says. He takes the hand. The music begins again, a soft flute, followed by strings, beginning to build into grandeur. It's a tune Percival recognizes - an old song, for victory after a long night, a traditional dance of the country he knows well. He certainly danced it enough times as a knight. Siegfried moves his other hand forwards, towards Percival's shoulder, but Percival slaps it away with a quick movement that makes his hand sting. 

"I'm leading," Percival snaps. He places his own hand on Siegfried's shoulder, and the older man gives a slight smile, a quick nod, as he takes up his cape in his free hand.

"I should have guessed. After you, Percival."

He leads.

The room changes. Percival is aware of the other dancers in the way he's aware of the lingering smells, the coloured light, the soft velvet slippers of the courtiers against the marble flooring. A part of the natural order, a part of the air, a part of himself. The sense of them fills him, and he knows where, and when, to move.

Three steps forwards, to the chimes of bells, gliding to the left, turning, then three steps more. Siegfried moves with him, reacting in time, back straight and poised. Percvial looks up, but avoids his eyes - there's a glint in there, not from the candles, or the setting sun, or the slow glimmer of the moon, and he doesn't want to see it. He doesn't want the mockery, the praise. He doesn't want to dance. He spares a quick glance over his shoulder, up the stairs, to freedom.

But he dances, just to prove he can. 

Their capes flutter on the quick turn, Percival guiding them around the other dancers, their steps longer, wider, more graceful. The same quick movements that save them in battle tuned to the notes from the cello, the violin. Two small steps to the side, a step forwards towards the partner, two back. His hand leaves Siegfried's shoulder, their arms go up, and before Siegfried finishes the spin they step back together.

Just as the bells chime.

"My, you are good," Siegfried murmurs. The note of surprise is obvious, and Percival squeezes his hands, fingers digging into flesh and tunic. 

"Of course I'm good," Percival keeps his voice low, but the anger seethes into it all the same. "You wanted to dance with me _because_ I'm good."

"Mm... you didn't dance this well, then. You've improved."

A snigger beside him, that whirls away as they dance apart. Percival whips his head, mid-step, mid-turn, and between the flashes of colour, the swirls of cloaks, he sees Lancelot, behind Vane's large form, looking amused. He'd heard. 

Oh, Percival is going to show him up _so badly_ tonight.

There's no hesitation in his steps, no focus but the music flowing into him, and back out. He pulls Siegfried across the floor, darting between lords and ladies, flourishes and snaps to the pauses in the music. His small steps are tiny, measured, just enough movement to draw the eye. His sweeps are perfectly timed, his boots gliding over the white floor, from the windows, near the tables, back to the stairs. His hand is light, firm, in Siegfried's, his other just on the shoulder, able to lift away at a moment's notice, at the slightest cue. 

For the final sweep, he meets Siegfried's eyes. The glint isn't there anymore - but there's something else untraceable in his rough features, framed by a few loose locks of hair escaping the ribbon at the back of his head. The music fades, and Siegfried smiles, and Percival feels his own mouth twist upwards into a smirk.

He's positioned himself, in the end, beside Lancelot and Vane, so he merely has to turn his head to unleash the expression on his rival. Lancelot glances over, looks away, and snaps his head back, as if he missed it the first time. He squares his own shoulders and steps back to give Vane a quick bow.

"Aw, Lancey, always so formal!" Vane laughs. He slaps Lancelot's back before he straightens. Lancelot has to catch himself before he face plants into the marble floor. "C'mon, let's have another dance. I like this piece! Unless you're done with Percy, Sieg?"

Percival is very aware he hasn't pulled back his hands yet, and with eagerness at the edge of Vane's expression, he doesn't dare now. "He's not," Percival growls. "And I wouldn't dance with you anyway."

"I'm waiting, Percy! You can't avoid me all night!"

Even Siegfried gives a laugh at that, and Percival rounds the glare at the older man. Siegfried drops his cape to tuck the loose strands of hair out of his face, before he lifts it again, head tilted to the side. 

"Well?" he asks. "Are we going to have another dance or not, Percival?"

Percival spares one last glance at Vane, leading Lancelot into the first steps, before he nods and takes the lead again. 

He spends two more dances like that: curt glances over at Lancelot, Vane pestering him as they spin past each other to dance with him next. His grip tightens on Siegfried each time, determination boiling under his skin, but not pushing through to heat or fire, and thankfully not distracting him away from the dance. Flicks of his cape to match the taps of their feet. Ducking under arms, drawing back, and coming together. Siegfried's eyes darken and lighten, the candles picking out his smiles, his enjoyment. He keeps pace, step for step, flourish for flourish. Percival can feel the eyes on him, Lancelot's, King Carl's, the guests. He feels their praise, their admiration, their awe.

It isn't until the music fades again he realizes he was smiling, too. 

Vane is nowhere near him this time, and he draws back, eyes flicking between Siegfried's face and the stairs. Siegfried follows his gaze and loosens his grip. He takes a half step back and bows low, sweeping, as graceful as the steps he just completed. Percival opens his mouth to excuse himself.

The first note of new music freezes him in place. 

It's not quite sad, but not quite happy. It echoes, each ripple silencing the room over again, as the lords turn to look at the orchestra. Before it quite fades out, another sounds, another instrument chiming, soft, light, but deep. Pure. It tightens in Percival's chest, dries the words on his tongue, stiffens the muscles loosened by dance and movement and freedom.

He knows the song. A tale of the long haul over the final hill, the first view of the sprawling city with the setting sun. The final curve of the river that announces the shallows, the pier, approaching. The moment the forests slip to familiarity, their branches marked with years of touches and life. The pinprick of something in the distance from the deck of an airship, knowing from the stars and moon what the speck of nothing is, miles away. 

The song is from Wales. His home. 

He hasn't heard it in a very, very long time. 

The instruments begin to come together, and around the room the courtiers take their positions to dance. Percival feels something shift in his gut. He's tired. He doesn't want to be there. His eyes dart around the room, and it seems smaller, crowded, unwelcoming, even as the familiar song grows louder in his memory. He doesn't want to dance.

A hand on his shoulder, one on his wrist. Light. His head whips back, and Siegfried is standing, his face unreadable and neutral, but his presence drawing in the light, adding richness to his torn jacket and loose hair, as if he was born to them.

"One last dance, Percival," he whispers. "Just follow me."

He hesitates. But he follows.

They start late, but Siegfried knows what step to begin with to lead them into the music. There's no hesitation: they are still, they are moving. Long strides, but not slow, turning as they cross the room - back to front, left to right, Percival stepping where Siegfried's feet leave, second for second. 

He watches the calm in Siegfried's face, in the arch of his back, and he centers himself on it, on the familiarity of the movements, the light touch on his shoulder. They spin and step, faster and faster, out-pacing the other dancers but matching the music, the beat, the pulse of the blood just under his skin. 

The pressure is gone from his shoulder, and he pulls back as the music rises. It's just their fingers brushing, tip to tip, steps apart, but moving together. Siegfried draws him forwards, free hand guiding his cape, and belatedly Percival reaches for his own. They don't increase the distance between them, nor shrink it: they move together as they stay apart. Spins, under Siegfried's arm, shifting behind his back, but never separating. 

There's nothing but the flow of the music, the sharp notes and the soft, the aching feeling they draw in his chest. There's Siegfried's guiding figure, matching his steps to the music, to Percival, to the current of the room. It registers to Percival there isn't movement around him, that the other courtiers have stepped back to watch, but he doesn't stop the dance. 

The music shifts, and he takes a step forwards, hand gripping Siegfried's firmly again as they make the final round of the floor, near stepping on each other's feet in haste, to keep pace with the speeding music, but never once making a mistake, never slouching, never looking away. Sweat beads at the corners of Siegfried's temples, and Percival knows he must not look any better, but the music continues, builds. They spin and step between the columns, between the guests, the urgency of the music pushing them further, harder, faster, until-

The music stops, the clap of silence thunder in a deafening storm. The arrest - Siegfried and Percival stop together, chests panting, mid spin, as sudden as the music ends. 

The arrival home.

Siegfried steps back again and gives another bow. In the background, there's a muffled noise, and Percival half processes it as applause, but he can barely hear it over the rush of blood in his ears, the pounding of his heart. Thoughts fly through his head, faster than he can notice and impossible to sort through (why did the orchestra play the song, how did they learn it, how did Siegfried learn the dance perfectly, who was behind it all). 

Straightening, Siegfried smiles, genuine, open, comforting. He opens his mouth, pauses, and closes it, but the words reach his eyes and the corners of his mouth, and Percival doesn't want to hear him say it. A knot laces itself in his gut, wrapping the music, the dance, together, tugging him towards a country he can't yet return to.

He spins on his heel, a flourish of his cape behind him, and storms to the stairs. He hears a voice call him - followed by a second, but the music starts again and drowns them out. The marble steps ring under his feet, cape sweeping behind him. 

He should not have gone. He should not have danced. He should have guessed the night was a mistake from the first moment King Carl mentioned his homeland. 

"Percival! Percival, stop making a scene and listen for one second!" 

Percival stops, mid-step. He knows who it is without turning. "I'm leaving, Lancelot. Do not bother me with your absent nonsense."

"The dance. It was beautiful. You really are an amazing dancer." 

Hands forming into fists. "Lancelot, I warn you, I-"

"Is it from Wales? I've never seen it before."

Teeth clenching. "Yes. Now-"

Lancelot snaps his fingers. "I thought so."

Percival almost turns then to demand why Lancelot is even here, if he'd guessed the origins of the dance, and if he has nothing better to do as Captain but ask idiotic questions of others, perhaps Percival could make some suggestions. But the empty feeling in his gut keeps his eyes locked forwards, hands at his side, and anger held back. Barely.

"You know, Percival... for all your faults, I do believe you'll find what you're looking for. I know you don't want to go back yet, or maybe you can't, but... you will get to. One day. You can go home."

That brings the turn, the glare, the rising of heat from his hands in a shimmer in the air. Lancelot takes it all in, holding his gaze, unflinching and steady. For one long, quiet moment, he looks every bit the leader he's become, every bit the Captain - chasing down his knights when things go wrong, reassuring them, being a pillar of strength. 

Percival is no longer a knight. But he has yet to become a leader, either. 

He looks away first, grinding his teeth. He looks back to the dance floor. Siegfried is being led around by a grinning Vane, not quite on time with the music, but at least not hitting anyone. Siegfried guides him back into place, quietly adjusting steps, coaching as they go. Vane learns, quickly, fixing his steps and turns, holding his coat properly.

"Will you teach me?"

"What?!" Percival snaps to attention, the question not fitting with his thoughts. Lancelot has turned to watch the dancers below, his fingers tapping, absent, on the bannister, to the slow rhythm. "Teach you what?"

"The dance. If you would. I'd love to learn. When you go home, I'd like to be able to dance it with you. Or at least not make a fool of myself while I'm there."

The word 'no' hovers on his lips, but he doesn't voice it as it comes to mind. His eyes catch Vane again, struggling through a spin, and King Carl, who flicks his eyes up to Percival, then back the two dancers with a small smile. The king's words float through his mind, how Siegfried learned the dance, how Lancelot wants to. How not everything can be learned travelling the world.

He's never going to admit King Carl was right.

"I suppose." Percival crosses his arm, tapping one finger to its own beat. "But I don't teach anyone who cannot perform up to my standards. You'll have to prove yourself first before I waste my time on you."

Of all things, Lancelot laughs, throwing back his head. He shakes it as he brings it back down, eyes catching the moon. "Prove myself? Alright, Percival. Shall we see if I can, then?"

Percival tilts his head back and smirks, earning another headshake from Lancelot. "I suppose now is the best time to check your capabilities. Don't keep me waiting."

Lancelot offers his hand, but Percival brushes past him with a snort, heading back down the stairs, into the fullness of the ball, for one last dance, and one more thing to learn.


End file.
